by Luca Veste
The others . . . you remember less clearly.
You want to feel that power endlessly, forever, but you know it’s impossible. Once the act is over, the feeling begins to weaken, tarnished by other thoughts crowding into your mind.
You wonder if you were ever normal.
When you started, you knew what the end game would look like. You knew how the closing scene would play out. You planned it perfectly, every step along the way. No one could have done it better than you. If you had continued in the way you had begun, you may never have been discovered.
You watched those two men die as they ended their own lives. The guilt too much for them, a ghost from their past revisiting enough to send them over the edge. Literally, in Chris Roberts’s case. You peered into the darkness as he leaped, wondering how it would feel if you followed him over the cliff.
You think about death more often now. You wonder if there is anything afterwards. If all this has been for nothing, that there is no soul to save, no soul to diminish. You wonder how you will be judged. If your actions will be understood and forgiven.
Old Testament God will be understanding, you feel. He wasn’t afraid to smite and bring death and destruction to those who erred. New Testament God, you’re more worried about. He was more about turning the other cheek.
You need to stop. Take a breath, consider things and make the right decisions. You don’t have time for that.
That’s why Neil Letherby is currently handcuffed and bound in the boot of your car.
You don’t know how you will kill him yet, but you know you will. You crave that power again. You need it, to keep going and complete your task.
You try and work out when this all began. Now it’s ending, you want to track the whole process. You know it begins in 2007, when eight men met and banded together, but that’s not the proper beginning. That’s a prologue – a way of starting the story without really starting it.
It really began in 2010. Six years ago. That’s how long it has taken you to get to this point, to finish what you started.
You think of death. You wonder if you’ll welcome it once this is over.
There was no other way.
You have to believe that, otherwise everything falls apart inside you. Everything has to have meaning, it has to have an effect. What you’re doing is so egregious, so outside the norm, that for it to be pointless would make all your work meaningless.
It has to change things.
You hadn’t planned for something like this to happen so soon after ending Matthew Williams’s life. The last place he would draw breath had been meticulously planned out. You spent time checking each warehouse on the banks of the River Mersey, to make sure you found the right one. Somewhere you could do what needed to be done in peace. Without interruption.
Now, you’re driving around aimlessly, trying to find somewhere to take the bound and gagged man in the boot of your car. You know you can lead him anywhere you need to, that the sight of the replica gun currently sitting underneath your seat is enough for the man. It’s finding somewhere that’s key.
Thoughts cascade through your head as you struggle with tiredness, trying to find somewhere to go.
This isn’t the last one. You know that. This is only number six.
You figure you have a day. Maybe two. Then, it will all be over. They are on to you, they will figure out who you are. You know this.
You don’t want to leave the city.
An idea comes to you. A stretch of woods, up towards the north of the city. You don’t know it well – you only noted it down when you first started planning this all out – but you know where it is.
It will be OK, you tell yourself. You’ve become so adept at thinking on your feet that nothing can stop you.
You just need to make one stop.
You pull into the petrol station and purchase two empty jerrycans and fill them up. You also fill the car with petrol, so as not to arouse suspicion, and then purchase some cigarettes and a box of matches. You make a joke with the cashier that your attempt to stop smoking isn’t going so well.
You dump the cigarettes in the passenger-side footwell, pocket the box of matches.
It is growing darker outside. It will be dark in those woods.
You hope the fire won’t be large enough to be seen.
You think of the warmth, the heat, and smile.
Thirty-one
The traffic through the Wallasey tunnel wasn’t as bad as Murphy had feared. Within thirty minutes, they were pulling off the M53 and then down towards Moreton Cross, taking the short drive towards the Millhouse Estate. He knew the route well, having made this journey most days a few years earlier.
‘Like going home, this?’
Murphy scowled at Rossi. She knew how much he’d disliked living away from his home city. ‘Not at all. I break out in hives coming over here.’
‘Yeah, right. You’re half a Wool and you know it.’
That’s the thing about Liverpudlians – leave the city for a year and you’re treated like an interloper when you come back. As if at any moment you might flit off again.
‘Bet you didn’t say that about Cilla when she popped her clogs. She hadn’t lived round here for fifty years and she was suddenly Liverpool’s sweetheart again when she died.’
‘Is this going to lead to another Beatles rant? Only I don’t think we have the time.’
Murphy sighed, but decided to leave it for another day. He passed a parade of shops before a more suburban landscape began to reveal itself. It didn’t mean there wasn’t a Tesco on the corner of the road he turned into, though. ‘They’re bloody everywhere.’
‘I heard once that they have bought a ton of plots, but can’t get planning permission for most of them.’
‘When there’s one on every corner, that’s when we can start moaning about the good ol’ days.’
The road into the estate was narrow, parked cars on either side meaning he had to pull over into small spaces every now and again to let oncoming traffic pass him. Within a few minutes, he was turning off the main road through the estate and into a smaller cul-de-sac.
‘Number twelve?’
‘That’s the one,’ Rossi replied, already unbuckling her seat belt. ‘We’re going to have to treat this with care. Given what’s happened to her, she’s going to have a whole range of emotions about the fact there was never any justice.’
‘I know,’ Murphy said, pulling over and parking across someone’s driveway for lack of anywhere else in the small street. ‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’
‘That we’re close?’
Murphy didn’t reply, just nodded slowly. ‘She knows who is doing this.’
‘Or is doing it herself. You always wanted a female serial killer.’
‘Not for nothing,’ Murphy said, removing his seat belt and opening the door. ‘I’d rather it wasn’t this one.’
The houses on the street were all small starter homes built ostensibly for families. He knew from painful experience that they were not particularly spacious. He had hurt himself on more occasions than he cared to admit, banging into door frames and walls as he tried to navigate his way around the small space. More than one child in a house this size would be ridiculous.
‘We’ve got a twitcher,’ Rossi said, nodding towards the house nearest to the one they were visiting. Murphy looked over and noticed the blinds moving on the house next door. Each home was semi-detached, but close enough to another that it made the detached part of that description almost redundant. ‘Tim Johnson’s house appears empty, but it looks like the other neighbour is here in case we need a welcoming committee.’
‘Wonder if anyone’s living in his old house,’ Murphy said, giving a small wave in the direction of the twitching blinds, which promptly snapped shut. ‘Did he own it?’
‘No, he rented it,’ Rossi replied, taking the lead and walking up the small gravel path which led to the front door. ‘Lights aren’t on here.’
; ‘Could be because it’s not all that dark.’
Rossi knocked, Murphy standing a few paces behind her. He looked towards the living-room window, but his view of the inside was blocked by closed blinds. He took another step back, but the upstairs windows were similarly out of view.
‘Doesn’t look hopeful,’ Rossi said, knocking again, louder this time. ‘Could be at work or something.’
‘There’s no one in,’ a voice from the house next door said. Murphy turned to see who he presumed to be the earlier blind twitcher, standing on her doorstep with her arms folded in front of her. He placed at mid-thirties, although the hair tied up in a bun made him wonder about his first impression. Could be a decade older, given his usual accuracy. ‘Hasn’t been there for days. Think she’s probably on holiday or something.’
‘Who lives here?’ Murphy said, moving across the small driveway towards the neighbour.
‘Who are you first?’ the woman said, brow creasing as she took in his size. ‘I’m not going to give info out to just anyone, am I? You bailiffs or something?’
‘No, nothing like that,’ Murphy replied, fishing his ID out of his pocket and flashing her his warrant card. ‘I’m Detective Inspector David Murphy and this is Detective Sergeant Laura Rossi. We’re from the Major Crime Unit over in North Liverpool.’
The woman’s expression changed – the usual mix of shock and intrigue. ‘What’s she done?’
‘What’s who done, Miss . . .’
‘Do I have to give my name?’
Murphy looked down at his shoes for a second, taking a breath. ‘No, not at the moment, but it would be easier to have something to call you by, rather than just guessing.’
‘Fine, it’s Julie. That’s what you can call me.’
Rossi joined him at the narrow stone path which ran along each house. It was almost pointless it being there, but it grew wider near the back of the houses and the gates leading to the small gardens. Enough room for residents to wheel out a bin and put it on the street once a week. ‘So, do you know who lives at the address?’ Rossi said, tilting her head slightly and giving the woman a tight smile.
‘I’ve only seen the girl, to be honest,’ Julie replied, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. The bun must have been done in a hurry, Murphy thought. ‘Young, earlier twenties, if that. Could be older, though. I’m not good with guessing ages.’
You’re not on your own, Murphy thought. He was now erring towards Julie being nearer fifty than the thirty he’d first imagined. ‘Do you know her name?’
‘Never really spoken to her. She’s lived here years and never bothered to say hello. Just comes and goes as she pleases.’
Murphy rolled his eyes whilst Julie shooed a dog back into the house. ‘Do you know anything about her at all?’
Julie shook her head, freeing another strand of hair from the bun on her head. ‘No, not really. She has a couple of visitors every now and again, but I don’t pay much attention. One of them has a blue Peugeot, if that’s any help? Nice-looking guy. I assumed it was a boyfriend or something. He was always coming round. Caused murder with the parking.’
Murphy felt Rossi stiffen beside him and turned to her with a questioning look, but she was already back to normal.
‘How often does he visit?’ Rossi said, ignoring Murphy and keeping her eyes fixed on Julie.
‘I don’t know, really. Few times a month, maybe. I can’t say I really take notice.’
Course you don’t, Murphy thought. There was something about nosy neighbours which set his teeth on edge. The only time they came in handy was when he was at work, when they could actually be useful. ‘When did you see her last?’
‘Been a week, I think,’ Julie said. ‘What’s she done? I have a right to know if she’s done something bad. I have to live next door to her. It’s bad enough that we had that guy who killed that woman living two doors away. If we’ve got someone else who’s done something, I’ll never sell this damn house.’
Murphy forced himself to take another breath before answering. ‘We can’t say at the moment. If we believe there’s anything we need to inform the public of, I’m sure you will find out through the proper channels. At the moment, I’ll just give you my card and you can get in touch if you see the woman who lives in the property. That would be a great help.’
‘I don’t think that’s good enough,’ Julie said. Rossi gave her a look strong enough for her to back down straight away. ‘I suppose I’ll keep an eye out for her.’
‘Thank you,’ Murphy said, giving the empty house behind them one last look before turning back to the car. ‘We’ll be in touch, if needs be.’
‘That’s it?’ Julie said, raising her voice as he walked away and waited by the car for Rossi. ‘You’re not even going to tell me what to look out for? How am I supposed to know when to ring you?’
Murphy was by the car at that point, so he couldn’t hear what Rossi was saying to the woman. He opened the car and got inside. It was another thirty seconds before Rossi joined him.
‘Did you post something through Hazel’s door?’
‘Yeah,’ Rossi replied, sitting beside him in the car and putting her seat belt on. ‘She’s been gone a week.’
‘I know.’
‘So, what do we think about that?’
Murphy turned the key in the ignition and, after performing a three-point turn, which turned into a six-point one, drove out of the cul-de-sac. ‘I know what you’re thinking . . .’
‘Do you? Because I have a feeling you don’t.’
‘You think she has something to do with the murders? That’s what you’re thinking, right?’
Rossi shook her head, allowing a small chuckle to pass her lips. ‘The blue Peugeot . . . Vincenzo drives the same car.’
Murphy took a second to make sure he’d heard her right. ‘Your brother Vincenzo?’
‘Do you know any other people with that name? Yes, my brother. The same idiot who has been named by two different people during this investigation.’
‘It could be nothing, Laura,’ Murphy said, turning to look at her as he pulled over on the side of the road leading out of the estate. He let the car idle as he turned in the seat properly. ‘Just a coincidence.’
‘Merda . . . figlio di puttana . . .’
Murphy waited for Rossi to stop swearing in a foreign language before speaking again. ‘How many bloody blue Peugeots do you think there are? Come on, this means nothing.’
‘I’m done,’ Rossi said, turning away from Murphy, one hand on her forehead. ‘I’ve screwed up. Royally.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Murphy said, feeling the air grow colder. ‘There’s more, isn’t there?’
‘I didn’t think it would matter. Just another coincidence.’
‘What was?’ Murphy said, trying and failing to keep an edge from his voice. ‘If you don’t tell me, I can’t help you. You know that.’
‘It’s too late,’ Rossi said, slipping off her seat belt and opening the car door. ‘I need some air.’
‘Laura, what the hell is going on?’
Rossi rummaged around in the inside pocket of her jacket and found what she was looking for. Murphy shook his head as she removed the cigarette from the packet and got out of the car. He heard the snick of the lighter and then an inhale of breath.
He wasn’t sure what to do, whether or not to get out of the car or wait her out. He took off his seat belt, but continued to sit there. A minute went by as he looked through the windscreen and tried to work out what was happening. Over four years they’d worked together. It hadn’t always been plain sailing, but through it all, one thing was supposed to be sacred between them.
They never kept anything from each other.
He supposed he’d broken that unspoken rule first, a year earlier. He’d told her about the possibility of a missing girl being his daughter, but not before it had come to the point when it was affecting him personally at work. Plus, she’d suspected something was going on before
he’d confessed.
There were moments in those four years when unspoken rules between them were ignored. It was just usually on his side rather than hers. Which made the fact she was currently smoking outside the car, hands shaking as she lifted the cigarette to her mouth, all the more worrying.
From experience, Murphy knew that people with no history of screwing up usually went for it properly when they eventually did.
‘All right, here it is,’ Rossi said, throwing the cigarette into the gutter and getting back into the car. ‘Please, let me just get this out, then you can have a go at me.’
‘I’m not going to have a go at you . . .’
‘Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Murph. I know you.’
Murphy gave her a thin smile, but she turned away from him. Her hands were in her lap, fingers tapping against each other as she looked at the houses outside.
‘He’s on the CCTV,’ Rossi said, voice shaking but even-toned.
‘What CCTV?’ Murphy replied, trying to work out exactly what she was telling him. ‘From when?’
‘Outside Sam Byrne’s apartment, from Mount Pleasant. I spotted him when you were going through it, but didn’t think it could possibly be him. I thought it was just a coincidence. How many coincidences can there be, though?’
Murphy took in a sharp intake of breath. Shit. ‘What was he doing?’
‘Nothing much. He walks into frame, stands around for a bit, like he’s waiting for a bus or something, then walks off.’
‘At what point does that happen?’
‘About midnight, twelve thirty. So, an hour after the last ping from Sam’s mobile phone. I should have said something, but I thought it was either someone who looked like him, or just a coincidence.’
‘Have you spoken to him? About this, I mean?’
Rossi shook her head. ‘I met up with him, but I didn’t get past just talking to him about these men and the club. He was really defensive, which isn’t like our Cenzo at all. Usually, he’s straight as hell.’
‘When did you see him? Yesterday?’
There was a pause, then Rossi nodded in response. She still wouldn’t meet his eye. ‘I’ve really screwed up here, haven’t I? It’s going to make me look like I was covering for him . . .’
